Out of Reach
Writing
Sukanya
in the balcony,
freshly dry laundry sways,
humming with a breeze only monsoon could sing.
there are three taut lines,
lines from which hang patterned nighties,
bandhini saris,
socks of all sizes!
the air smells of frangipani and Tide,
sweet and crisp,
and soft.
aputha calls out—aputha, not a-paati,
for my sister, at the sweet age of two,
could not twist her tongue around
the moniker earned as the eldest of four,
so to all her grandchildren
a-paati became aputha—
“the next load is ready, kanna,
bring them down!”
the job of dreams!
i place the white plastic basket
squarely in the center,
a quick tug here, a small hop there,
and the trailing garms tumble–
draping me in colors and shapes,
before falling right in.
oh, but the socks!
they are out of my reach, glaring
in polkas, stripes and mostly whites–
i would need three of me,
standing tall.
“aputha! heeeelp!”
my apu, four feet and eleven inches high,
strides in,
white plastic basket #2 on hip.
she reaches behind the door,
for a long, brown stick,
curved at its end.
she raises the stick—
a stick as lanky as me at seven—
aligns the curve to the taut line,
cleanly bringing down the sock.
i watch, entranced,
as she rests an unravelling damp sari
over the stick, and deftly
flings it over the clothesline
in one fell swoop!
she hums,
sulag sulag jaye mann,
and i dance beneath three lines,
out of my reach,
out of hers too,
but not quite.
Concept Note
Two years ago, I was travelling in Vietnam and I captured a clearing, filled with laundry hung at all heights, on film. The clearing transported me back to memories of my grandmother, my aputha, and the summers I spent with her. I long for the summers in my childhood: summers where I would follow aputha as she worked around a house filled with a breeze of monsoon. Her presence was inviting, warm to childlike curiosity and restlessness.
As she gets older, her memory more fleeting, and as I move more seas away from her, I consciously and unconsciously search for these moments where I feel closer to her. This is one of those moments. When I look at the developed film, I return to the moment, the feeling. It feels palpable, immediate, and almost within my reach. Writing it down is my way to renew the memory, to cherish it. Remembering her feels like an embrace reaching for me, across time. The past extends into the present, and love lingers in the space between the two.
There is so much love in remembering.
Artist Bio
Sukanya is a 25-year old, in transit. She lives in cold, dreary London, and misses the warm showers of Bangalore. She writes to reflect, but mostly to remember. She likes to tell stories through poetry, music and more recently, 35 mm. Her interests include learning languages, watching fire and bouldering.